The Pulowski Preservation Shelter
by AliBlack
Summary: Sometimes it helps to tell stories that turn in on themselves and spiral out into the ending of the world.


_The Pulowski Preservation Shelter_

Damn. Wait. Start from the beginning.

A bright, blinding light, heat and wind. I couldn't see a damn thing. No wait. That's not the beginning. Well, I guess it could be. Call that Armageddon day, even though I was talking about stepping out of 101. Two beginnings, two endings, two different times.

But there was dad and there was mom and they had me, but I wasn't a child of this vault they said I was. And like the two of them, I walked the same path of life, of water and survival. Of truth and of justice. And that's how I end up here.

No, that's not it. Start again.

Try blood. I was born covered in blood, I will die covered in blood. It is my father's blood that gave me life, my father's blood that gives me my strength. It is our blood that binds us, his hand that raised me, and his eyes that invoke shame in my heart.

Shame for every tiny mistake. Shame for something as small as breaking a beaker. Shame for disobeying him, and coming out into this world. Shame for the – no. I'm getting ahead of myself again.

Start again.

It was scary and it was amazing. It was devastating and empowering. I was lonely and I felt on top of the world. I wasn't James' daughter. I wasn't the doctor's kid. I wasn't just another 101 citizen. I was just me. The Wanderer. The only person in a wasteland. I was the king and I was the fool.

And I got in such a mess.

No. Too far, and just not right. From the top.

Freedom. I was free of the suffocating walls and ceilings and recycled air and darkness. There are more men than those Tunnel Snake children, and I stand a chance of actually screwing someone who doesn't act like a testosterone-addled five year old.

Off topic. Try again.

Monsters. That's all that's left in this world. Monsters that kill. Monsters made of rats and of bears and monsters made of men – both physically and metaphorically.

Monsters with teeth and monsters with claws and monsters with guns. Monsters with vertibirds.

Then there's me and the few people I love, and the few people I can save. The few people who are the bait to these monsters. How many monsters do I have to kill to save them from their horror story? Are there enough bullets in the world?

Four-legged monsters with radioactive bile and monsters with exploding slave collars.

A handful of people that I have to save, and not one single person to save me.

Getting better. Start over, but keep going.

For two months I was a savior. For two months I was someone. Someone who did something important. Who saved people. Who helped people. Good always wins. _Always. _

I can see the gratitude in their eyes and it's something like the best thing in the world.

I did it all. I did everything they could ever ask of me. I saved everyone who asked for help and even those who had never asked. I gave as much as I could give, a veritable vow of poverty for myself and alms to those in need. So after all this way, it can't end in an anti-climax all alone...

Fuck, you're spinning out. Get a hold of it. Start again.

...no, it can't end like that. For two months I was a savior. For two months I was everything I was waiting for in the vault. I was everything I said I could be if given the chance. Everything good in the world.

I helped people. I saved people.

Good always wins. _Always_. Right?

_Start. Again_.

Good always wins. _Right?_

_START AGAIN._

Why? Monsters with assault rifles and so many fucking people to save. So many people to save.

And now what can I do with four bullets and a knife, sitting in the dark with only the pip-boy light to show me the skeleton that lies scattered beneath my feet, a hole in the skull and a darked bloodspray on the wall? With at least seven supermutants chasing after and a bleeding, shredded up leg, and not a clue what to do. With no hope in the world for people come to save me.

With how many people counting on me to save their lives, and all I can do is sit and tell stories to keep me sane and try and make sense of everything until they find me and tear me limb from limb or eat me or do whatever to me because I've failed and I'm done and I wasn't good enough to do what my father does and they were right and I was wrong and they knew I couldn't do it all along and I just rush in like the stupid little girl I am and end up sitting alone in a preservation shelter with four bullets and a knife and sit and cry and beg for daddy and wish with all my heart that he could scoop me up and tell me it's alright that I did my best and that everything will be okay and that I'm not going to die and that I'm not going to die not going to die not going to die...


End file.
